Swords
by Alekto
Summary: A short Musketeers (BBC TV version) character study as Captain Treville watches the musketeers sparring.


Swords

by Alekto

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A short Musketeers (BBC TV version) character study as Captain Treville watches the musketeers sparring. It's almost certain to get AU'd all over the place as I'm basing it off a handful of episodes, some promotional pictures of the characters, my memories of reading the Three Musketeers and rather a lot of conjecture!

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Captain Treville, commander of his Majesty's Musketeers, looked up from the apparently endless pile of paperwork with a sigh. The regiment was a small one – they numbered no more than about a hundred gentleman musketeers but those hundred were unquestionably the best of the best. If courage and enthusiasm were all it took to be a musketeer he could have filled those ranks ten times over, but though they were few in number, the men who had earned the right to wear the musketeers blue coat stood head and shoulders above their fellows. That each was a fine swordsman was too obvious to state; as was the requirement that they could outshoot ten-year army veterans ninety-nine times out of a hundred. More importantly a musketeer had to be able to think on his feet, to have the determination to persevere against odds that would have lesser men mewling in terror, to be able to show the kind of initiative that solved problems rather than… Treville paused and looked at the stack of paperwork, reflecting how much of that stack was down to his musketeers deciding to show their initiative. That was unfair, he decided, all his musketeers shouldn't have to share that blame; not when there were three who showed a particular talent for creating paperwork for him.

And the fact that they had recently acquired a young compatriot – from Gascony, no less – had only made things worse. Treville was a Gascon himself and was well aware of his countrymen's reputation for brash recklessness. It was, he decided on skimming through yet another complaint about property damage, a reputation that d'Artagnan seemed quite determined to live up to.

Outside in the yard he could hear the sound of steel on steel: his musketeers apparently taking advantage of the break in the endless rain to get in some sparring practice. Many of them had the funds to access the halls of the many expensive fencing salles that were in the city, but even so they seemed to prefer the camaraderie of the converted inn where they were currently headquartered. Feeling the need for a break from the paperwork Treville stepped out onto the covered walkway surrounding the coaching inn's yard.

About a dozen musketeers were in the yard below, some at their ease sitting and drinking at the wooden tables, others calling out advice or otherwise heckling their fencing comrades. His gaze found Athos first of all, after nearly five years in the regiment he was one of the longest serving of his musketeers. The sheer effectiveness of the musketeers meant they were called upon to undertake the most difficult – some would say impossible – missions. That they succeeded so often was a credit to them but the costs had too often been appallingly high. Athos had survived. Looking at the man, sometimes Treville couldn't escape the feeling that Athos hadn't truly wanted to survive but was just too good a soldier to give in and die.

He thought back: when he had first met Athos, soldier had been the last word he would have used to describe him. Suicidal drunkard would have been more accurate but that was before he saw him fight and he had to reluctantly requalify it as suicidal drunkard who could outfight any man he'd seen. The sword that Athos carried was without doubt a nobleman's blade, as fine an example of the sword cutlers' craft that he had ever seen – no one but a nobleman could have afforded the fine chiselled and silver damascened hilt - but for the costly decoration it was still a workmanlike sword and the quality of the steel second to none. At court Treville had seen bejewelled monstrosities of swords that were fit only to be hung as decoration from a fop's belt that were about as sharp and useful as butter knives, but for all its expensive decoration, Athos' sword was a weapon and he used it as such. He could still clearly recall that first time he saw Athos fight against one of his current musketeers: the duel had been over so quickly that he had thought the man had slipped. Bringing in a second musketeer to make it two on one had merely delayed Athos' victory, but as he fought Treville began to see behind the drunk the cold-blooded calculating determination of a man he could use.

Now, five years later, Athos still carried the same sword but this time he was faced off against one of the few men Treville had ever come across who could keep up with him: the young, brash, reckless, accident-prone d'Artagnan – who despite not yet being a musketeer was nonetheless managing to inflict yet more paperwork on him. D'Artagnan's sword was the opposite of Athos' in so many ways: plain, unostentatious, even slightly dated with its less-than-fashionable cross quillons, but that aside, the blade itself had surely been forged by a master craftsman – nothing less could have stood up to the demands d'Artagnan laid upon it. Athos might have been a master swordsman, without doubt the best in the regiment, but d'Artagnan fought with a combination of excellent training and extraordinary reflexes. For the time being, Athos' mastery of technique gave him the edge, but in five years time, once the rough edges had been smoothed off d'Artagnan's style, Treville firmly believed d'Artagnan would be one of the finest swordsmen in France.

For now though, the precise economy of action that hallmarked every lunge and parry that Athos brought to bear was more than sufficient to overcome d'Artagnan's youthful enthusiasm. As the duel ended with d'Artagnan disarmed, Treville heard Porthos' bark of laughter at some comment Aramis had made, too quietly for him to hear. Whatever it was had d'Artagnan grinning ruefully and even raised the ghost of a smile from the normally imperturbable Athos. As Athos sat reaching for a cup and a bottle of wine, Porthos stood to take his place opposite the young Gascon.

Alone amongst the King's Musketeers Porthos carried a sword that wasn't a rapier. His preferred blade was a Schiavona – a heavy basket-hilted broadsword crafted in the Italian style. At nearly three times the weight of a rapier, most gentlemen considered it a butchers' blade: a battle sword good for hacking down an enemy but too heavy to fence with – unless you had Porthos' strength at which point it became a lethally effective weapon. Treville had on occasion used a Schiavona in the past but found it too clumsy to be as versatile as his preferred rapier, though he would have been the first to admit its effectiveness in battle as the favoured weapon of some of the best heavy cavalry that Europe's armies had to field.

Seeing he had Porthos as his opponent, d'Artagnan drew the smaller main-gauche with his left hand. In a friendly duel Treville knew the young Gascon would normally have waited to see if his opponent favoured the main-gauche before arming himself to match, but d'Artagnan would have known that Porthos wore an armoured gauntlet on his left hand and his drawing the main-gauche just made things equal. It was a match that Treville could never call, however many times he'd seen them face off against each other. Porthos' strength and ferocity in attack was well matched by d'Artagnan's speed and skill. If d'Artagnan could control the distance between them, his speed would usually make the difference; if he could close the range, the sheer power that Porthos could bring to bear would always overmatch the lighter man. This time luck was on Porthos' side as d'Artagnan missed his footing in the mud – a mistake of barely a fraction of a second but against a fighter of Porthos' calibre it was all it took for the Schiavona to beat aside the lighter rapier. The armoured gauntlet blocked the main-gauche's swift counter attack and the duel ended with d'Artagnan backed against a post, Porthos' forearm across his neck.

Good humoured laughter filled the yard as d'Artagnan stepped away from the post and very pointedly wiped the mud off his boot. Porthos grinned, shrugged and sat down next to Athos gesturing expansively for Aramis to take his place. From their first meeting Treville had not truly known what to make of Aramis: a man who had quite freely admitted to wanting to become a musketeer on a temporary basis pending his ordination as a priest. Treville's first thought had been to send him to join the Cardinal's Guard, but then he'd seen the man fight and seen him shoot. Musketeers were expected to be marksmen, but Aramis had the rare talent to take even the crudest of ordnance pistols and shoot it as if it were the finest gunsmith's masterpiece. With his own guns his skill was such that no gunsmith in Paris would dare warrant his guns so accurate. But that wasn't what drew Treville to offer the man a place in the regiment. Aramis was an idealist and more than determined to stand by those ideals no matter what stood in his way.

Between that and Aramis' unquestioned marksmanship, it was easy to forget that he was a fine swordsman as well. Taking his place opposite d'Artagnan he doffed his hat and bowed low in clear caricature of the most overblown of court manners. With a ready grin d'Artagnan returned the bow and took his stance. Unlike the earlier duels, this was more a fight between equals. Normally d'Artagnan would have had the edge in skill, but he was already tired from fighting Athos and Porthos and the blazing speed that hallmarked his style had slowed a fraction, but between swordsmen of such skill, a fraction was all it took to even the odds.

Watching them fight it was only too easy to think that Aramis wasn't working hard – his every move was graceful as if he were pacing out the steps of a well known dance. His sword echoed his style, an elegant swept-hilt rapier, simple and unadorned but unmistakeably a gentleman's blade. The two were evenly matched and from the corner of his eye Treville glimpsed watching musketeers place wagers on the outcome of the bout but the outcome, Treville decided, would remain unknown as a King's Messenger rode through the gate on a sweat-lathered horse. The sparring stopped immediately as the messenger slipped from the saddle and hurried upstairs to present the sealed letter he carried to Treville.

He opened the seal and read through the note, all the time feeling the eyes of his musketeers upon him. He looked up and caught Athos' gaze, summoning him and the others to his office with a gesture. Sitting down he re-read the note and saw the pile of paperwork still awaiting his attention. As Athos and the others entered the office and stood before him waiting for his orders, Treville could not escape the feeling that there were soon going to be some new and doubtless very interesting additions to his paperwork…


End file.
